


Nature

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Inline with canon, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Plot/Plotless, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-04-23 21:32:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Remus resigned himself to a longer trip back than what he usually makes before he trudged over the damp grass to the Whomping Willow that guards his monthly abode, and so his location, at least, isn’t much of a surprise when he wakes to find himself curled into a tight ball on a nest formed of fallen leaves and pine needles in the midst of the Forbidden Forest." It takes Remus time to find his way back to himself after his monthly transformation, but Sirius is always unstoppably impulsive.





	Nature

Remus doesn’t remember what he does during the nights of the full moon.

He’s grateful for this, as a rule. There is some measure of horror to waking in a strange place with a mouth full of the taste of iron and nothing but torn clothes and aching limbs to speak to his actions the night before; but it helps, on some level, to keep his self separate from the wolf, that memories from one don’t carry into the other. Sometimes he collects recollection from fragments of dreams, he thinks, those nights he wakes with his heart pounding and the cool crisp of autumn air clinging so tight to his thoughts he thinks for long minutes he’s still in the forest instead of asleep in his dormitory; but for the most part he no more recalls what his other self does than he can control it. When he was younger this was a benefit; bad enough to see the bars of the cage in which he was kept swing shut on him for the hour it took before the moon rose and his transformation rippled through him; far worse to live through the desperate efforts towards freedom that left him bruised and broken before sunrise brought the medical treatment his body required. It’s only in recent years, with the advent of friends who know his secret and share his nights, that Remus has had any desire at all to know what occurred over the hours between the start of his transformation and the daybreak conclusion of it.

He wakes in the woods, this time. Often he’s herded back to the Shack by one or another of his friend’s efforts; Peter is rarely of much help, but James can sometimes urge him in the right direction, and Sirius’s help is invaluable on those rare occasions he sees any point to making the effort. But James was sick last night, kept in bed with a cold that only loosened and didn’t release its grip no matter how much Pepper-Up Potion he drank, and his treatment confined him to the infirmary under an eye far too watchful to let a patient go absent for the whole of a night. Remus resigned himself to a longer trip back than what he usually makes before he trudged over the damp grass to the Whomping Willow that guards his monthly abode, and so his location, at least, isn’t much of a surprise when he wakes to find himself curled into a tight ball on a nest formed of fallen leaves and pine needles in the midst of the Forbidden Forest.

What _is_ a surprise, enough of one to jolt him to full consciousness in a rush, is the warmth of an arm draped close around him and the press of a chest against his shoulders. Remus goes very still, locked to immobility in the first rush of instinctive surprise, before he can steady himself sufficiently to ease the ball he’s made of his body and turn to look back over his shoulder. There’s a mess of dark hair pressing to his back, heavy waves matted into tangles that curtain their owner’s face, but Remus doesn’t need to see the other’s features to recognize him. The hair alone would be enough, if his presence didn’t already limit the pool of options dramatically, and both Peter and James tend far closer to pasty white than the tanned-in bronze that kisses Sirius’s body, presently left on display by the tatters of his shirt around his chest and the long bare arm stretched around Remus before him. He must be asleep -- Remus can hear the slow pace of his breathing to prove that, even if his stillness didn’t give it away -- but his hold on Remus has eased so little that Remus is afraid to move further for what effect it will have in forcing Sirius awake. Still, he hardly has many options under the circumstances, held where he is by the weight against him, and with the sun lifting over the horizon to brighten the sky Remus has few choices but to be on his way back towards school as quickly as he can get there.

He presses his lips together and swallows, a mostly-futile effort to clear his throat before he speaks in as calm a tone as he can find for himself. “Sirius.” Sirius makes a sound in the back of his throat, a soft whine before he tightens his arm around Remus; not precisely the result Remus was looking to achieve, even if it glows heat across his cheeks and brings his attention into sharp clarity at every point Sirius is pressing against him. “Wake up.” Sirius curls in a little closer, shifting his head to nuzzle between Remus’s shoulderblades, and Remus’s determination to rouse the other spikes with the keen edge of embarrassment to spur it on. “ _Sirius_.”

“Mmngh,” Sirius mumbles. “‘M awake.”

“I sincerely hope you’re not,” Remus mutters, more to himself than with any intention of projecting the words for Sirius’s hearing. “Sirius, _wake up_.” He reaches to push at Sirius’s arm around him, offering force enough that he hopes it will prove sufficient in dislodging the grip the other has on him, but even then it takes a moment before Sirius stirs enough to shift and actually loosen his hold.

“Where’m I,” he mumbles, speaking so close against Remus’s skin that his lips are in some danger of dragging directly against the bare skin of Remus’s neck, where his overlarge shirt has left the top inch of his spine bare. Sirius’s hand at Remus’s stomach slides up, dragging across the other with a movement that arches into strain at Remus’s back even as he acknowledges the lack of intent behind it, “I was having this dream--” and then his body tightens, his arm flexes. “Oh.” He pushes away, freeing Remus as he rolls back over the rustle of leaves beneath them, and Remus takes the opportunity to sit up instead of bemoaning the loss of warmth that comes with Sirirus’s arm falling away from him.

“I suppose we didn’t make it back to the Shack after last night,” he says, lifting his gaze to consider the trees around them instead of down to actually look at Sirius with his hair tangled around his face and expression soft with the remnants of sleep clinging to his expression. “I didn’t truly expect that we would without James.” Remus grimaces and glances at the tumble of leaves heaping to drifts around the trees surrounding them. “Did Peter make it back already?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sirius says, and turns against the forest floor to brace his hands so he can push himself up with all the fluid elegance of the dog form he held all through the previous night. Remus often feels a pang of jealousy at how graceful Sirius and James and even Peter are after a long period in their Animagus forms, when his own forced transformation strains his muscles and leaves his bones aching and heavy with the effort of sustaining what is ultimately a curse and not a choice. Right now he’s just trying to keep his attention turned sufficiently aside to avoid lingering at the pull of muscle along Sirius’s back, beneath the remains of the old shirt shredded nearly entirely to pieces by the rough-and-tumble of the night before. “He was having a bloody hard time keeping up with us. He usually rides on James, he kept sliding off me whenever I moved fast enough to keep up with you.”

Remus flinches. “Poor Peter,” he says. “I must apologize to him later today.”

“I don’t see why,” Sirius says, twisting to sit heavily at the floor again and shaking his head to toss the weight of his hair back from his face. Even twisted into knots the fall of it looks sleek in the dawn light; the disheveled look gives him the appearance more of a model fresh from a stylish photo shoot than a schoolboy awakening in the dirt of a forest. Remus’s gaze slides down the curve of Sirius’s nose, touching to the other’s mouth as his imagination unfolds the setting for that hypothetical photo shoot, with a heap of blankets and the tangle of sheets around gold-tan legs to cover some tantalizing portion of Sirius’s lean form; and then he realizes that he is certainly not keeping his attention where he intended it, and he drops his gaze firmly to his lap again while he lifts a hand to push through the tousle of his own hair, which tends towards disarray instead of the seductive languor Sirius is still exuding even as he speaks. “He can’t possibly blame you for doing exactly what you always do, it’s not as if you chose to leave him behind. If he pouts at anyone it ought to be me.”

Remus smiles at his hand lying slack in his lap. “Yes, but you never apologize for anything.”

“Of course not,” Sirius says. “Being insufferable is part of my charm. Apologizing would completely defeat the point.”

Remus snorts. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“You don’t have to take my word about anything,” Sirius says. “You can tell perfectly well for yourself how endearing my escapades are to everyone around me.”

“Oh yes,” Remus says. He’s found a knot with his fingers; he pulls against it, his attention fixed on the tug against his scalp more than on the idle patter of conversation. “Certainly. Poor Peter doesn’t stand a chance against your dashing good looks, he might as well give up on being angry before he’s well begun.”

“If he’s smart he’ll have done so already,” Sirius agrees. “Which means of course he’ll still be sulking when we get back.” Remus has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the sharp edges of the comment. There’s a moment of quiet, with nothing but the soft murmur of the forest awakening around them; then:

“You have a leaf in your hair,” Sirius says abruptly.

“I believe I have several,” Remus says without lifting his head. “Where is it?”

“To the left,” Sirius says. “No, not yours, mine. No, you’re--” and there’s a rustle of leaves, a cascade of sudden motion, and Remus’s head comes up to look just as Sirius’s hand moves past his face to reach for his hair. Fingers catch into the locks, tugging with surprisingly gentle force to untangle one of the knots, but Remus’s attention is caught at Sirius’s face suddenly so close to his own even more than at the feel of the elegant fingers dragging through his hair. Sirius’s mouth is soft with the attention he’s turning to the task at hand; his lashes are as inky-black as his hair, thick and heavy enough to make the clearest gaze he can offer a smoulder without any effort at all. His features are rock-star handsome at any time, in class in a disheveled school uniform or while wearing the Muggle clothes he fancies during the summer months; from this close up Remus thinks they would be enough to catch anyone’s breath, regardless of their preferences or personal feelings towards the young man in question. For Remus, with years of unacknowledged want and long months of repressed desire, breathing becomes an impossibility, as if he’s been caught in a Full-Body Bind just by the slide of Sirius’s fingers against the hair tangled behind his ear. Remus stays very still, staring at Sirius as the other frowns at the work of his fingers, until he sees Sirius’s expression brighten into simple satisfaction as he tugs free the leaf he was reaching for.

“Got it,” he says in tones of superlative satisfaction as he draws his hand back over Remus’s shoulder to hold up proof of his victory in the form of a crumpled leaf. His gaze is fixed on the leaf as he holds it between them; it’s only as his lashes shift with his focus coming up that Remus realizes his danger, and then it’s too late and Sirius is looking right at him. They stare at each other for a moment, Remus caught in the midst of wide-eyed appreciation and Sirius staring at him; and then Remus blinks, and rocks himself backwards in the first desperate need to gain distance enough that he can speak distraction for the brief giveaway of warmth he is sure is all over his face.

“We’ll need to get back soon,” he says as he turns his head to glance at the morning sun. “I’m not allowed my wand on full moon nights, I don’t suppose you--” and there’s heat against his mouth, the press of sudden friction at the corner of his lips, and Remus would swear his heart skips in his chest with the instant recognition of the warmth pressing against him. He stays still for a heartbeat, staring wide-eyed into the shadows of the forest while Sirius’s mouth presses to the side of his own as if pleading for surrender, while his overactive thoughts drop to ringing, stunned silence at this sudden satisfaction of a wish he has been carrying in silence for the span of two full school years. He can’t think, can’t act, can’t guide any part of his body; and in the absence of control his other self steps in, instinct rising to the fore to turn his head, to lower his lashes as his mouth softens in expectation. Sirius’s mouth drags against his, damp lips catching against the chapped edges of Remus’s mouth before settling back into place again, sealing against Remus’s lips as if they were seeking out that contact in the first place. They are both still there for a moment, lips barely parted, not moving except to breathe the same radiant heat between them; and then Sirius draws back, moving so slowly Remus can feel the catch of Sirius’s lips pulling free of his own with slow grace. Sirius pauses an inch away from Remus’s mouth, his nose still close enough to bump against the other’s and his hair toppling into the space between their faces before he drags a breath to speak.

“Sorry,” he rasps, his voice husky and rough as if heat has aged him twenty years in the span of a heartbeat. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Remus’s eyebrows twitch in spite of the ringing heat blanking all his thoughts to stillness. “You didn’t mean to kiss me?”

“No,” Sirius says. “I mean I did. Obviously, that’s. What I was doing. I didn’t mean to...let myself do that.” He presses his lips together and ducks his head forward as he swallows hard enough that Remus can hear the motion flexing in his throat. “Sorry.”

Remus stares at the top of Sirius’s head, at the tousled black hair sweeping down to curtain his expression. It’s hard to see his face at present, impossible to properly gauge his reaction, but Remus is fairly sure that was a flush darkening across the other’s cheeks, and his mouth is still tingling with the press of Sirius’s lips to his own. He draws an inhale, reaching to fill his chest with focus as his best means of steadying himself. “I thought being insufferable was part of your charm.”

Sirius huffs a breath. “And you’re far too smart to bother with being angry with me.”

“Yes,” Remus says. His heart is beating hard in his chest; he can feel each thump against his ribs like a hammer blow falling home. “So you see there’s nothing to apologize for.”

Sirius ducks his head farther forward. “Right,” he says, rasping the word into the weight of resignation, now, instead of satisfaction. “It’s not worth bothering yourself over, I suppose.”

“No,” Remus says. “It’s not,” and that’s enough speaking, his pounding heart is bearing him forward of its own accord, lifting his hand to catch at Sirius’s hair and push it back from the handsome lines of the other’s face. Sirius’s head comes up, his gaze jumping to meet Remus’s in the first jolt of shock, but Remus is leaning in without waiting for Sirius’s mouth to ease from surprise before he presses his lips to the other’s. Sirius makes a sound in the back of his throat, a whine of surprise that hums at Remus’s mouth, but Remus stays close, pressing his mouth to Sirius’s with far more intention than he was able to manage in the first sudden contact. His fingers slide against Sirius’s hair, fitting far into the tangled strands to brace the other still, until even when he draws back to gasp for a breath he’s holding Sirius so close he can see the individual details of the other’s lashes dipping over his eyes.

Sirius blinks hard, his mouth shifting like he’s struggling for speech. “Moony,” he says, and he sounds almost like he’s pleading, now, like he’s desperate for something, as if Remus wouldn’t do anything for him for no more than a word. His hand comes up to feather over Remus’s hair, to slide against the tangles and curl to a fist against the strands. “Really?”

Remus wants to laugh. It seems impossible, to hear so much of his own feeling pressed to disbelieving warmth in Sirius’s voice, to have the reflection of this daybreak happiness made so clear in the mirror of the other’s response. His mouth does curve up on a smile, the shape of it too soft for him to resist, but he speaks instead of laughing, even if his voice is softer and gentler than he’s ever known it.

“Really,” he says, and slides his fingers to stroke through the heavy waves over Sirius’s ear. “My Padfoot.” Sirius tips his head into the contact, his expression softening into unrestrained contentment, and Remus has to lift his other hand to cradle Sirius’s perfect face between his palms and lean in to kiss Sirius’s wide mouth from the soft of disbelief into the heat of pleasure.


End file.
